Magna Ausus.
Originally published in Fraser's Magazine (James Fraser) vol.4 #19 (Aug 1831).
'Tis placid midnight, stars are keeping
Their meek and silent course in heaven;
Save pale recluse, all things are sleeping,
His mind to study still is given.
But see! a wandering Night-moth enters,
Allured by taper gleaming bright;
A while keeps hovering round, then ventures
On Goethe's mystic page to light.
With awe she views the candle blazing;
A universe of fire it seems:
To moth-savante with rapture gazing,
Or fount whence Life and Motion streams.
What passions in her small heart whirling,
Hopes boundless, adoration, dread;
At length her tiny pinions twirling,
She darts and—puff!—the moth is dead!
The sullen flame, for her scarce sparkling,
Gives but one hiss, one fitful glare;
Now bright and busy, now all darkling,
She snaps and fades to empty air.
Her bright grey form that spread so slimly,
Some fan she seemed of pigmy Queen;
Her silky cloak that lay so trimly,
Her wee, wee eyes that looked so keen,
Last moment here, now gone for ever,
To nought are passed with fiery pain;
And ages circling round shall never
Give to this creature shape again!
Poor moth! near weeping I lament thee,
Thy glossy form, thy instant woe;
'Twas zeal for "things too high" that sent thee
From cheery earth to shades below.
Short speck of boundless space was needed
For home, for kingdom, world to thee!
Where passed unheeding as unheeded,
Thy slender life from sorrow free.
But syren hopes from out thy dwelling
Enticed thee, bade thee Earth explore—
Thy frame so late with rapture swelling,
Is swept from Earth for evermore!
Poor moth! thy fate my own resembles:
Me too a restless asking mind
Hath sent on far and weary rambles,
To seek the good I ne'er shall find.
Like thee, with common lot contented,
With humble joys and vulgar fate,
I might have lived and ne'er lamented,
Moth of a larger size, a longer date!
But Nature's majesty unveiling,
What seemed her wildest, grandest charms,
Eternal Truth and Beauty hailing,
Like thee, I rushed into her arms.
What gained we, little moth? Thy ashes,
Thy one brief parting pang may show:
And withering thoughts for soul that dashes
From deep to deep, are but a death more slow.